By Phyllis Chavez FUN IN THE SUN: The Quackers roll out to the Santa Monica Bay for a day of surfing and sun bathing. Little did they know they were headed into polluted waters, Juanita Quacker (r) especially.
IT’S SUMMER. WE LIVE BY THE BEACH. Suddenly, distant cousins and long lost friends magically appear at our door. Since Memorial Day weekend the “Le Quac-Ker Bed and Breakfast” has been in full operation. Still, it was surprising when we got a call from our cousin, Juanita Quacker, from Albuquerque, N.M.
We’d begged her to visit for years, but she was full of excuses. It was always too hot to fly, or too cold to fly and then it was too far to fly. She was right about the last excuse. It was a lengthy flight, since she was using her wings instead of a plane. Juanita is environmentally considerate like that. She insists on keeping her carbon footprint to a minimum. With global warming and rising airfares, I think she made the right choice for her budget and the environment It had been a long time since we’d seen her. We were looking forward to her visit. I, more than my brothers, and for entirely selfish reasons. I love green chile. Please, don’t think badly of me, but when I heard she was coming the first words that popped out of my bill were,“Are you bringing green chile?” I finally remembered to say, “Can’t wait to see you!” And then, “You won’t forget the green chile, will you?” Yes, I am ashamed.
Juanita’s mom lives to cook. She makes the best green chile stew in the universe. Did I mention I asked Juanita to bring her mom? Yes, I am rotten, but I love green chile. They call it “chile verde.” On our first visit to Albuquerque, they took us out to eat. At the restaurant the waiter asked us, “Green, red, or Christmas?” We looked at him like he was crazy. It turned out that ‘Christmas’ means you want both, red and green chile! Happily, I discovered I could get green chile on everything. I had it with my eggs, on my pepperoni pizza and even at MacDonald’s on a burger! I’m convinced the New Mexico state motto must be,“A day without chile, is like a day without sunshine.”
We all had ideas on how to entertain Juanita. I suggested a trip to the Museum of Science and Industry. Rusty opted for hitting all the surf spots from here to San Francisco. Richard commandeered the phone trying to recruit her to help reclaim a junky vacant lot and turn it into a wildflower field/vegetable garden. She heard nothing.
Since she was a huge fan of “Baywatch,” I pictured her gazing into space, eyes vacant, with a dreamy look on her face, while she imagined her version of the trip featuring herself surrounded by beautiful people and handsome lifeguards. She probably pictured the sand caressing her little webbed toes as she ran down the beach (in slow motion of course) and splashed dramatically into the breaking waves. Our suggestions never stood a chance.
Juanita flew in ready for the beach. She had not flapped her wings for 800 miles to sit around the house. She jumped into her swimsuit and grabbed her flip-flops. We loaded up our surf boards and jumped on our skateboards. The race was on. Richard, in the lead, turned and asked, “Did anyone check the beach report card?” The question fell on deaf ears.
When we arrived, Juanita froze in place. Her eyes grew wide and a smile spread across her face. The large, crashing waves were exhilarating. She loved the feel of the sand under her feet and the salty tasting breeze on her bill. She was not prepared for the size of the waves or the vastness of the ocean. Though beautiful and exciting, the power and size was intimidating. At home she swam in the Rio Grande, an irrigation ditch or splashed in flooded fields. Compared to the Pacific Ocean, those places looked like bathtubs. She settled on wading at the shore-line and working on her tan.
As we surfed, she seemed content collecting shells and chasing sand crabs. Later, we noticed Juanita jumping and waving. She was frantic. We paddled in as fast as we could. Distressed and agitated, she was sitting in the sand with tears in her eyes pointing at her feet.
They seemed swollen and she was scratching them. They looked hot and were covered with a fiery red rash. What had happened? The beach had not been posted but it had to be the water. Why didn’t we check the beach report card? There must have been another sewage spill! We felt terrible and responsible. The day was ruined. Using one of our boards as a stretcher, we carried a sobbing, miserable Juanita home from the beach.
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on September 9, 2008. Read the original PDF.